Courage
by Kapellmeister
Summary: Bruised and battered, Seamus longs for only one thing.


Eyes welling up in pain, Seamus Finnegan grudgingly allowed Neville to wipe the blood from his swollen lips. He bit back a bitter exhalation as the ache coursed through his flesh, causing him to shiver even as his roommate dabbed at the cracked skin. Feeling like a pulpy shadow of his former self, he tried his best to distance his mind from the physical. There were far worse fates then a broken face. However, even as a cool numbness began to blossom, the doubt set in.

He would give anything to be away from this horrid place. The formerly magical halls of the castle had become steeped in the substance of nightmares. A constant fear loomed over the place. Children whispered. Children disappeared. He was lucky, his mum would continually remind him. Yet, as he greedily conceded, this was not enough. He would give anything to be with him. Hell, Seamus would give anything to simply know if he was even alive. This question, above anything else in his mind, consumed him.

"The Carrows?" Neville murmured as he dipped the edge of his flannel into the cloudy pitcher of water on the bedside. A fog of red spread throughout the liquid, mercurial and deliberate.

Seamus nodded. He had been rash. His mother would scold and at one point this would have mattered. However, now her comfortable judgment fell on deaf ears. Let her ignore injustice. He couldn't. The fervor of the D.A. was infectious and Seamus hadn't been able to bear Alecto Carrow's lecture a second longer. He remembered the exchange as Neville inclined his head, clearly unsurprised at the cruel sibling's involvement.

"It was that bitch," Seamus hissed, savoring the word. Neville's eyes glittered almost approvingly as he listened, arm hanging still at his side. "It was the normal rubbish. Muggleborns are filth. But then... then she went too far."

His fist clenched in remembrance as he recalled her twisted grin. "Like rabid dogs, better off dead," she had sneered, horrible yellow teeth leering in a terrible caricature of a smile. She then smacked her hands together as though she was slapping a tiresome fly, insignificant and unwanted. That was the last thing Seamus remembered before he became aware that he was flying towards her face, wand forgotten as he took an impassioned swing at her hideous, leering smirk.

Oh, he had been punished, but it was worth it. Each bruise, each cut, was a trophy, a medal which he proudly displayed, signifying his true worth as a Gryffindor. Neville sensed this, bobbed his head approvingly and said, "Just be careful next time. The dorm would be rather lonesome if I were to lose you too."

It may have been Seamus's imagination, but Neville's voice seemed rather deeper then usual.

***

That night as Seamus pulled the sheets about his body, he couldn't help but to remember Neville's request. The boys' dormitory had indeed become a sad reflection of what it used to be, red and gold dressings seemingly faded in a world gone grey. Three beds lay cold, forlorn and empty. Harry was gone. Ron was gone. Dean... well, Seamus didn't really want to think about it.

Yet he couldn't seem to avoid it.

Seamus wondered where he was tonight as he tossed onto his side, unable to find a position that didn't ache despondently as his skin drew across the fabric. A very different kind of ache ravaged his chest as he bit his lip painfully. Eyes fixed determinedly on the opposite wall, Seamus attempted to banish his ever growing sense of self-loathing. What kind of... friend, was he, cozied up in the belly of the beast as Dean felt the flames? He would apologize if only he knew how. Lifting a finger to his swollen lips, he imagined them bruised for another reason. He imagined strong arms caressing him, bringing a little color, a little light, to an existence that had become utterly monochromatic. His mind slipped into his own personal fantasy and he was ashamed. Cheeks flaring red, Seamus reminded himself that Dean did not share that interest.

This only made his heart beat faster.

Eyes uncomfortably moist for the second time that evening, he squeezed them shut. One day this nightmare would be over. He felt somehow sure of this, although he didn't know why. All he knew was when that time came he would need to find another kind of courage, the courage to walk away, even knowing that a part of you was missing.

In the meantime, his chest burned, longing for the courage to forget.


End file.
